Dying Is How We Begin
by Idealuk
Summary: baphomets-tits on Tumblr wanted reactions to Ian being falsely presumed K.I.A. (killed in action) and I aim to please. Not BETA'd. Mistakes are mine. I purposely kept switching tense to suggest levels of urgency. Please give love if you have it.


It shouldn't have come as a shock.

This is what happened all of the fucking time.

Mickey tried to tell himself that it was Mandy crying that rattled him underneath what he shows out to the world – she rarely ever did, and never so desperately, so he knew why she was curled up and weeping openly when he came home from the convenient store (Linda had given him his job back because she truthfully had an appreciation for the fear that he put in to the whole Southside except for a select few) – but even he was self-aware enough to not believe that.

How long had he been waiting for Ian to come back home and just assumed they'd pick back up because how could they not? Not even Terry could rip them apart for very long. At this point, he had thought that nothing could, still, he knew to not ask for nice things, and Gallagher was – to Mickey – more than most could ask for. Though, Mickey hadn't asked – not at the beginning – they'd just came together in a gravitational collision like love is supposed to be, and he couldn't stop wanting more.

He loved the little fuckhead and now he was dead and the boy whom couldn't bring himself to give him what he wanted – what they wanted – felt what little heartbeat for life stop and now it was only a matter of time before the actual muscle followed the metaphor and the literal non-beat of the one it secretly beat with … until apparently six days ago. Whether that went down in a few years, decades, or hours didn't matter to Mickey. If he continued to be honest, it hadn't mattered in 157 days, as in not since Ian had left him to sit and rue on that fucking sleeping bag.

Mandy's arms felt like ropes of ice trying to hold him to a world he no longer had any interest in being a small part of as he found himself sitting on the couch next to her after not feeling the motions of how he got there. Her blubbering on how he was killed in action when his Humvee was hit in Where-the-fuck-ever-istan was the loudest white noise Mickey's ever heard in his short, and long, life of bullshit he did, and didn't, deserve to hear. More words that meant every thing and nothing to him just washed over him because he knew what they meant. He didn't need to actually hear them. Never did.

His life was shit. His life was over. Probably should've never started.

He stands up under a similar weight and haze to when he's dug in to a good batch of weed that he'd gotten from Kev, but he's feeling grounded and already-entombed instead of the floating, and fleeting, impression of lifted-and-free, and, as he grabs a gun from one of almost any drawer in the house, he ignores the cloudy imagery of his sister calling after him and the blending-in-to-his-front-lawn figure coming to his door as he was leaving decidedly for good. He hadn't bothered to even see who it was, much less consider greeting them; he had nothing left to give; he was done, and ready to be that way. Ian Gallagher had taken it all and left him witless and hopeless.

Done. Done is done.

He headed to their rooftop – the open one with abandoned training gear – his body tight but squared and moving at a steady pace. He was going to meet his fate. He wasn't going to be a bitch about it.

He slowed when he realized that he was passing Firecrotch's house.

V was too consumed with consoling Fiona, and Fiona was pissing tears in to her hands, for either of them to see him from the front steps where they sat. Inside, he could hear clamoring, and Lip yelling at Carl to stop punching in the walls, Debbie crying and telling a whimpering Liam that it'll be okay with no confidence, and he knew it was all of his fault. If he'd let Ian in on how he felt inside, he would've never left, and they'd all be happy.

He ran the rest of the way.

When he got there, he was reminded the day in which Ian made the final dare for him to kiss him for the first time, and he knew that this was what had to be done and it had to be here.

There was peace in the certainty, but tears ran down his face, and his hand shook as he raised the gun to his temple at the thought of what he'd never get to do with Gallagher. He cried out what he'd never get to tell him.

"I loved you! I have from the fucking start! I couldn't get you out of me! Wormed your way in to every part of me! … I married her for you! Not to give him a reason to kill you! Divorced her for you, too, couldn't stand seeing you sad every time I closed my eyes or looked at her! And, got him sent down for life to keep you safe when you got back! … I was waiting for you! And, now, you're dead any way! I can't go back to life with out you! I just fuckin' won't!"

"Don't!". There's that word again. It had plagued Mickey for the last five months, but, this time, it hadn't been him whom said it, and the voice was some thing else that plagued him. Normally, it was ghosting "Don't what?" in his mind, but now it was just repeating his vague command back to him. Though, it can't be because he's sure that he didn't pull the trigger already, and he knows he's not good enough for Heaven.

Ian had made it there just in time to see Mickey begin to squeeze the trigger – Mandy had been smart enough to tell him about the gun as soon as she answered the door before asking questions other than his name in the initial shock after he had passed Mickey on their pathway – but he'd heard the words from the stairwell.

Mickey reluctantly lowers the gun; unable to deny even a likely phantom Ian, but refuses to open his eyes before he's said the words that could break the spell he suddenly seems to be under. "You're dead!"

Ian couldn't decide what shocked him more: the words before, seeing that Mickey was ready to take such severe measures, the sheer helplessness to the misery of the two words which followed Mickey was emoting as his voice pitched and his face was sloppy with tears, an other case of mistaken identity had actually almost taken away what it was supposed allow him to return to after the first one had him leaving, or that a part of him wasn't shocked by any of it.

"They got the wrong guy. Dog tags got exchanged, but fixing it is how they found out I'm not Lip, so I'm home now for g—". Ian was taking a cautious step forward when Mickey interrupted him.

"No! Mandy told me! Your Humvee was attacked," Mickey ranted while waving the gun, "and you died! I should've never let you leave! I loved you and now you're dead and it's all my fault". Mickey places the gun back to his temple.

Ian bolts the rest of the way over.

With his JROTC/military training, he confiscated, and disarmed, the gun before Mickey's trembling hand could do any damage and twisted him in to a hug from behind.

"I'm here. There was a mix up with the dog tags. It wasn't me. I'm not dead. I am here. With you. They found out I lied, so I couldn't go back even if I wanted to, but I'll never leave you again. I love you, too, Mickey".

Mickey started out tense, but melted in to the embrace as the redhead's words and warmth made it all feel real, and, for the first time in his life, he was glad that he was alive, cherished by some one, and gay.

He needed those strong arms around him.

This started out as a daring fuck with the neighborhood bad boy, but, as Mickey curled in to him with so much defenselessness, Ian knew that this debased boy was the one person in the whole world whom really needed him, and he'd never leave him again.

This was only their beginning and it only took the both of them dying.

And, until he actually died decades later, Ian never wondered why he went to that house first instead of his own or how he knew where Mickey was heading. Some things are just meant to be.


End file.
